THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

HARRY  MACPHERSON 


Published  by 

THE  SAN  DIEGO  SUN 
SAN  DIEGO  :  CALIFORNIA 


Copyrighted  1921 

By 

Harry  MacPherson 
San  Diego,  California 


Quality  —  Service 


The  poems  "Squared  Circles,"  "Blind" 
and  "Wild  Stuff"  are  printed  herewith 
for  the  first  time.  Credit  for  republica- 
tion  permission  on  other  poems  is  due 
The  San  Diego  Sun,  New  West  Maga 
zine,  San    Francisco  Call,    Goodwin's 
Weekly  and  Salt  Lake  Herald-Repub 
lican,  in  which  they  variously 
appeared  first. 

ODD 


DEDICATION 

To  those  whose  heartbeats  vary  now  and  then, 
Emotion-swayed  as  Poseidon  ruled  the  sea  — 
At  times  a  bellowing  breeze  that  joyously 

Speeds  up  your  lagging  voyage,  or  again 

Some  peaceful  calm  to  smooth  and  sooth  your  path, 

Leaving  a  dreaming,  drifting  time  to  spend; 
Or  veering  to  the  tempest's  biting  wrath  — 
Your  barque  the  venture-craft,  Variety, 

Bearing  a  cargo  joyous  without  end: — 

Of  baby  smiles,  of  dancing,  distant  chimes. 
Moonlight  on  spires,  the  colored  flame  of  sky  — 
Love,  life  and  beauty  ever  flowing  by  — 

To  you  and  all  my  loved  ones  —  every  friend  — 
/  dedicate  this  little  sheaf  of  rhymes. 

—H.M. 


CONTENTS 


DEDICATION — A  Sonnet 
SQUARED  CIRCLES      . 

WILD  STUFF 

MISSION  CLIFF  GARDENS — A  Sunset  Song 

BLIND? 

SAN  DIEGO 

ALUMNI 

TOWERING 

SCHOOLGIRLS      ...... 

LOMA         ....... 

ARTISTRY  ....... 

LA  FIESTA 

JUST  HOME        ...... 

LURE  o'  THE  OPEN  ROAD  . 

SCRAPS       

OLD  RAG  DOLLS         . 

GREEN  EYES     

SEPTEMBER'S  LAMB   . 
CLOSE  HARMONY       . 
MOTHER'S  DAY          . 
PARSNIPS  ....... 

RESURRECTION  . 

TRUCE       ....... 

IMMORTAL  RILEY  . 

PATERNAL          ...... 

SOFT  SHACKLES  . 

TURKEY'S  H.  C.  L.    . 
PARTING    ....... 

MINE 

GOLDEN  GAME  ...... 

NEW  YEAR         ...... 

WHISTLING 

SHOPPING 


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POEMS 

BY 
HARRY  MACPHERSON 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

Some  are  flat — nor  high  nor  low — 

No  heights,  no  depths,  no  Heav'n,  no  hell; 
With  dull,  plain  apathy  they  go 

On  cloddy  level,  and  think  it  well; 
Black  death,  white  life  they  do  not  know! 
What  tale  can  gray  existence  tell? 

I 

Where  lilacs  drip  with  vernal  rain 
And  Summer  gilds  the  emerald  grain, 
Where  Autumn  cracks  vermillion  leaves 
And  Winter  fairy-pattern  weaves — 
Embroidered  chill  on  the  window-glass — 
Where  I  was  a  lad  and  she  a  lass, 
Back  to  my  fond  home-land  I  strayed, 
Back  to  the  real  game,  fairly  played, 
Where  simplicity's  tyro-gaze 
Stares  with  wonder  at  novel  ways. 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

II 

Train-trekking  toward  the  gates  of  dawn 
How  suddenly  sea  and  hills  were  gone; 
How  soon  on  undulating  plains 
Warm  day  kissed  lips  of  ardent  grains. 
I  sped  ahead  to  a  spot  of  charm, 
Trivial  town  beside  our  farm, 
Remembering  well  despite  the  years — 
Mad,  interlying,  stirring  years 
So  choked  by  laughter  edged  with  tears — 
How  folks  on  Saturdays  would  gather 
To  gossip  of  the  crops  and  weather. 

Ill 

Sure  knots  before  the  dry-goods  store 
Would  swap  the  news  and  rustic  lore: 
That  planting  beets  or  carrot  crops 
In  moonlight  made  'em  go  to  tops; 
How  measles  raged  down  by  the  "crick" — 
The  whole  blamed  neighborhood  was  sick; 
How  ev'ry  feller  in  the  Spring 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

Should  take  a  tonic,  banishing 
With  sulphur  and  molasses  all 
The  ails  that  piled  up  since  the  Fall. 

IV 

I  idled  on.     The  train  raced  through 
A  hundred  towns,  a  city  or  two. 
Familiar  signs  within  my  range 
Of  hungry  vision  seemed  so  strange. 
New  depots  here  and  paved  streets  there, 
Unshaded,  regular  and  square. 
Till  finally  the  trainman  bawled 
My  boyhood  village.     As  he  called 
The  name  in  accents  coarsely  clear, 
With  alien  sound  it  stung  my  ear. 


How  changed  are  manhood-conjured  scenes 
When  mem'ry  upon  childhood  leans! 
Here  a  building,  remembered  well, 
That  recognized  and  spoke.     "Do  tell!" 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

It  shrilled  in  quaint,  familiar  tone, 
"Where  have  you  been  and  how  you've  grown!' 
Haggard  and  wrinkled  in  roof  and  wall 
My  friend  had  shrunk,  who  once  was  tall; 
Dwarfed  by  the  curse  of  my  heightened  gaze. 
Dulled  by  the  splendor  of  newer  ways. 
Dimmed  by  the  shadow  of  structures  bold 
Flaunting  their  youth  to  the  warped  and  old. 

VI 

And  wagon  tracks?     Long  since  ail  rolled, 

Straightened  and  paved — how  queerly  cold 

The  same  streets  seemed.     No  curve  the  eye 

Relieved.     And  there  came  crashing  by — 

Stunning  my  soul — well  known  machines. 

But  unfamiliar  in  these  scenes; 

This  town  where  beauty  used  to  glow — 

This  town  I  knew,  but  didn't  know. 

I  spied  the  marshal  from  afar. 

Then  closer.     "Chief"  adorned  his  star! 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

VII 

The  folks  I'd  known  spoke  language  quaint. 
Oft  interspersed  with  "fetch"  or  "ain't." 
"I  calculate"  would  slip  from  tongue 
As  fluently  as  an  old  song  sung. 
What  was  this  talk,  this  conversation 
These  persons  made?     Some  hesitation — 
1 1  seemed — was  lurking  on  each  lip 
As  though  they  ever  feared  to  slip 
Back  down  to  phrases,  early-learned, 
And  now  by  fresh-paint  culture  spurned. 

VIII 

I  met  Jack  Price.       He  as  a  boy 
Had  known  no  luxury  but  joy. 
His  parents  (luck  is  often  murky) 
Were  well-nigh  poor  as  old  Job's  turkey; 
Jack — ever  an  ambitious  cub — 
Invited  me  to  his  Country  Club. 
Youth-chum  talking  with  coin-hard  eyes 
And  voice  that  sought  to  patronize. 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

To  view  success  makes  one  inspired — 
But  what  a  broad  "a"  he'd  acquired! 

IX 

"And  where,"  I  asked,  "is  Clinton  Hall, 
That  kid  whose  father  owned  most  all 
The  real  estate  in  town?"     Price  said: 
"Perhaps  you  know,  the  old  man's  dead; 
Left  all  his  stuff  to  Clint  and  he 
Had  a  wild,  four-year  spending  spree — 
He  doesn't  count  now,  really  poor; 
Is  selling  shoes  in  Newman's  store." 
High-born  can  fall,  low-born  rise. 
No  sympathy  in  Price's  eyes. 


Down  by  the  railroad  where  I'd  played 
And  fought  in  Humboldt's  lot,  they'd  made 
A  regulated  playground  there, 
Fretted  and  fenced  with  grownup  care; 
My  swimming  hole  in  the  careless  stream 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

That  used  to  echo  with  bare-boy  scream, 
Improved  by  a  store-sold  diving  chutes 
For  nice,  clean  boys  in  bathing  suits. 
Rough  woods,  just  made  for  walnut  larks, 
Were  beautified — one  of  the  city  parks. 

XI 

Out  on  the  slopeside,  weather  swept, 
Where  tired  Old-timers  softly  slept, 
I  went.     The  graveyard  was  too  bright 
With  tended  flowers  to  left  and  right 
All  orderly.     A  dead  breeze  moaned 
And  slid  by  hard  graves  freshly  stoned; 
Expensive  monuments  replaced 
Those  etched  by  grief,  by  teardrops  traced. 
Gay  gilded  letters  crowned  the  gate; 
"Memorial  Park" — our  graveyard's  fate. 

XII 

Remember  how  the  Sunday  swains 
In  winter  snows  or  springtime  rains 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

Or  other  seasons  went  to  wait 
For  church-girls  just  outside  the  gate? 
When  parsons  damned  in  words  immortal, 
Shaken,  they  faltered  at  the  portal. 
But  in  Cathedral,  rich  and  fine, 
Unmellowed  yet  by  time  or  vine. 
Unhallowed  fearless  gather  there — 
Smug  lectures  sooth,  they  never  scare. 

XIII 

Drawn  to  a  measure,  taped  and  ruled 
The  people  seemed — all  virtue-schooled 
With  regulations  writ  for  curbing 
Irregularities  disturbing. 
Of  old,  by  keen  revivals  prod, 
They  shouted  sinners  back  to  God, 
And  if  they'd  fallen  far  from  grace 
How  joy-lit  was  each  Heavened  face! 
But  sons  of  these,  year  in,  year  out. 
Curse  sin,  but  ne'er  for  sinners  shout. 


SQUARED  CIRCLES 

XIV 

Who  knows  but  humans  can  become 

By  long  residing,  like  their  home, 

And  in  a  palace,  stately,  fair, 

Absorb  a  grand  and  gracious  air; 

Or  where  the  sharp  peaks  pierce  the  blue 

And  wet  seas  thicken  nightly  dew, 

The  people  go  from  high  to  low 

And  up  to  high — all  to  and  fro. 

After  pain,  pleasure's  vast — 

We're  happiest  when  sorrow's  past. 

XV 

A  fallen  woman  plucked  from  fire 
Has  super-virtue,  none  is  higher. 
Coarse  granite  is  the  statue  base, 
So  staunch  that  time  cannot  efface 
The  higher  marble,  smoothly  fine 
In  graceful  texture,  slender  line. 
Crudities  in  romantic  tale 
But  limn  the  lovely  lyrics  frail. 


10  SQUARED  CIRCLES 

Nor  pure  nor  beautiful  nor  strong 
Are  middle  morals,  stone  or  song. 

XVI 

Land  of  my  Dreams — I  left  it  there, 
Vibrationless  as  the  pre-storm  air, 
Curbing  and  cramping  all  emotion, 
Chill  as  an  ice-breath  on  the  ocean; 
Specified,  squared,  surveyed  and  sure. 
Certified,  warranted  right  and  pure. 
Back  I  hurried  to  rest  my  eyes 
On  red-flecked  sea  when  dim  day  dies, 
Mystery-masts  in  the  harbors  old, 
Magical  mountains  of  unfound  gold; 

XVII 

Shifting  mists  and  the  restless  breeze 
Pungent  with  odor  of  other  seas, 
Missions  where  age-green  ivy  sighs 
And  laughter  and  love  in  friendly  eyes ; 
Loveliness  smiles — no  one  suspects  her; 


SQUARED  CIRCLES  1 1 

Sin  reforms — and  none  rejects  her; 
Only  Dullness  suffers  pain, 
Scorned — she's  shallow,  flat  and  plain ; 
Hers  small  credit  for  blameless  station. 
Ugliness  never  fights  temptation. 

XVIII 

North  or  south  or  east  or  west, 

I'll  picture  my  home  as  I  loved  it  best, 

Youthful  and  arrogant,  raw  and  free, 

Flayed  by  winds  like  the  storms  at  sea, 

Balmed  by  peace  of  the  purple  sage — 

Erring  folks  in  a  humaner  age; 

People  with  frailties,  not  too  wise, 

Novelty  in  each  fresh  sunrise; 

White  hearts,  black  hearts,  hearts  of  gold; 

Warm-blooded,  hot-blooded — never  cold! 


12 


WILD  STUFF 


WILD  STUFF 

Let  me  go  where  air  is  thin,  up  in  the  hills  once  more. 

With  a  staunch  pal  and  rod  and  reel  by  mountain  torrents 'roar; 

Crackle  a  fire  before  a  tent  pitched  beneath  a  pine, 

At  daybreak  let  me  whip  the  stream — and  the  world  is  mine. 

Give  me  a  gun  and  a  good  boat  when  the  air  begins  to  chill, 
Then  let  the  birds  go  flashing  up  and  let  me  shoot  until 
My  muscles  ache,  my  eyes  tire  and  night  comes  fluttering  down 
While  back  I  tramp  to  the  river  camp,  far  from  the  futile  town. 

Boots  of  rubber  up  to  the  hips,  cap  and  coat  of  leather, 
What  do  I  care  for  the  drenching  air  as  storm  clouds  rush  together? 
Freedom  of  woolen  strengthens  me  as  I  bend  to  the  pulling  oars. 
Change  and  wild  forgetfulness  in  the  different  Out-of-doors. 


MISSION  CLIFF  GARDENS  13 

MISSION  CLIFF  GARDENS 

(Sunset  Song) 

Where  Nature's  garden  splendor  overflows, 

Deep  shadows  blur  the  paths  with  purple  stain, 

While  winy  wind  across  the  mesa  blows 
With  true  Pacific  balm  in  sun  or  rain; 

And  evening  skies  are  amethyst  and  rose 
As  windows  of  the  west  fold  shut  again. 

Off  there  a  sun-bathed  valley  casts  a  spell, 
All  wound  with  highway  like  a  ribbon  thin; 

Where  toned  of  old  the  silv'ry  mission  bell, 
Mellow  as  light,  aiding  the  priests  to  win 

Faith-followers;  what  tale  the  vale  would  tell 
If  it  could  reminiscences  begin. 

And  other  beauty!     How  the  color  gleams 

As  the  proud  peacock  spreads  his  feathers  there, 

Rich  blue  and  satin  green  within  the  beams 
Of  sunshine  tempered  by  the  twilight  air; 


14  MISSION  CLIFF  GARDENS 

Bending  acacias  with  the  breath  of  dreams 
Spread  fragile  perfume,  delicate  and  rare. 

But  in  the  plaza,  palmed,  at  close  of  day. 

As  muted  night  creeps  up  with  starry  stealth, 
Comes  lilt  of  laughter,  children  at  their  play, 

Resplendent  in  their  Southland-given  health- 
The  amber  gold  of  sunset's  richest  ray 

Forgotten  as  we  view  this  red-cheek  wealth. 


BLIND?  15 


BLIND? 

He  sits  upon  a  plaza  bench — 

The  day  is  warm  but  he  is  cold. 

The  dark  sun  pounds  his  dead  eyes, 
Worthless  and  old. 

Laughing  they  pass  in  silken  skirts — 

How  keen  the  glance  of  blind  men's  ears! 

They  show  him  sights  that  sped  his  pulse 
In  vanished  years. 

He  sits  upon  the  plaza  bench — 

Night  comes  with  ocean-chilling  breeze. 
But  he  is  warm  with  the  thrilling  touch 

Of  memories! 


16  SAN  DIEGO 


SAN  DIEGO 

Here  on  the  rim  of  a  sapphire  sea, 

Near  to  the  mountains  of  glinting  green. 

Winds  of  the  West  touch  tenderly 

Harbor  and  highlands  and  vales  between. 

Wealth  of  the  mesas  and  purple  hills. 

Fruit  of  the  soil  and  the  verdant  vine — 

Riches  the  prodigal  sun  distills — 

Arrayed,  displayed  in  this  mart  o*  mine. 

Apples  of  gold  on  the  bending  bough, 
Soft,  sleek  cattle  with  coats  of  silk; 

Glorious  grapes  that  are  ripening  now — 
Land  of  mellifluent  honey  and  milk. 

Melody  market  where  palm  trees  play, 

Lovely  as  lilt  of  a  soft  guitar; 
Tones  of  the  tropics  are  calling  today — 

Come  to  my  bountiful,  bright  bazaar. 


ALUMNI  1 7 


ALUMNI 

Queer  pencilings  scribbled  in  the  book. 
Old  Latin  grammar — just  a  bit  of  junk — 
Initials  of  forgotten  boyhood  friends; 
Memories  lie  slumbering  in  a  trunk. 

And  here's  a  tattered  program  of  a  dance 

With  names  of  youthful  sweethearts  written  there; 

Titles  of  dead  songs  that  used  to  stir 

Our  dancing  feet  before  they  knew  a  care. 

Scrap-book,  ragged  story  of  the  years, 
Those  pleasant  years  when,  had  we  only  known 
(As  children  never  will)  that  joys  sublime 
Are  fragile  things  possessed  by  youth  alone. 

How  carelessly  with  many  a  laugh  and  jest 
These  youngsters  toss  about  their  golden  wealth; 
School  days  brimming  full  with  radiance, 
Knowledge  and  life's  own  dewy  morn  of  health. 


18  ALUMNI 

Queer  pencilings  scribbled  in  a  book — 
Class  numerals,  some  mystic  signs  in  Greek- 
Poignant  the  glad-sad  memories 
Of  Graduation  Week. 


TOWERING 


19 


TOWERING 

Standing  where  a  thousand  roses  blow — 

Their  petals  bending  in  the  pleasant  breeze — 
We  see  a  sweep  of  green  that  row  on  row 

Blurs  in  a  distant  vista  of  warm  trees; 
And  pointing  to  the  Southland's  smiling  blue, 

Slenderly  fair  as  any  maid  or  flower, 
A  shaft  of  white  between  each  glowing  hue, 

Rises  the  lyric  California  tower. 


20  SCHOOLGIRLS 

SCHOOLGIRLS 

Heaviest  tomes  they  lightly  swing 
Off  to  school  with  their  chattering, 
Ah,  but  it  makes  the  heartstrings  sing 

Just  at  the  carefree  sight  I 
Youthful  light  in  their  bright,  young  eyes, 
Eyes  that  are  neither  too  dull  nor  wise. 
Healthfully  seeking  each  new  surprise — 

Oh  for  a  pen  to  write! 

Silks  and  satins  and  bold  brocades 
Heightening,  brightening  worldlier  maids; 
Theirs  the  necessity  for  such  aids — 

Glorious  glamors  of  grace. 
Can  they  compare  with  the  high-school  lass, 
Bloused  in  simplicity's  primer  class 
Who  speeds  our  hearts  as  we  see  her  pass 

With  eager  and  girlish  face? 


SCHOOLGIRLS  21 

Learning  their  lessons  of  love  and  life, 
Yet  untouched  by  the  storms  and  strife 
That  all  in  an  elderly  world  are  rife, 

Tingeing  our  souls  with  gray; 
Pray  that  they  never  may  feel  defeat, 
Let  them  laugh  while  their  laughter's  sweet — 
God  keep  the  song  in  their  dancing  feet, 

Just  as  it  is  today. 


22 


LOM/ 


LOMA 

Between  the  mast-flecked  harbor  and  the  sea, 

Point  Loma  bathes  in  sundown  mists  of  gold; 
Wrapped  in  the  purple  robes  of  royalty, 
Adrip  with  jewels,  reviews  the  pageantry — 
Watches  the  wealth  of  all  the  West  unfold. 


ARTISTRY  23 


ARTISTRY 

If  he  were  selling  gilded  things, 
Jewels  bold  and  brazen  rings. 
Shoes  or  clothes  or  furniture, 
Buyers  would  be  fairly  sure 
To  come  with  money  to  his  door 
And  purchase  from  his  sodden  store. 

Alas!     He  only  has  for  sale 

A  little  rift  of  dawning,  pale; 

A  songbird  fluttering  in  a  tree 

Or  sunset  colored  gorgeously, 

An  open  road,  a  country  brook — 

The  idle  come,  the  curious  look, 

They  smile,  and  praise  and  pass  him  by; 

And  never  buy! 

If  he  were  playing  raucous  song 
With  tempo  swift  to  please  the  throng, 
The  crowds  would  swiftly  gather  there 
To  pay  for  every  careless  air. 


24  ARTISTRY 

Alas!     His  music  is  but  this — 
A  mother's  smile,  a  baby's  kiss. 
An  anthem  to  eternity, 
A  hymn  of  hope  or  song  of  joy; 

And  some  may  come  and  hold  their  breath 
At  thrilling  shades  of  life  or  death ; 
And  some  may  pause  to  hear  the  trill 
Of  wild  fowl  on  the  hill — 
And  stirred,  they  only  laud  or  sigh; 
But  do  not  buy! 


LA  FIESTA  25 


LA  FIESTA 

Queen  of  a  glistening  realm  is  she, 
Golden  and  gemmed  is  the  pageantry 

Passing  her  palace  of  pearl; 
Wealth  of  the  soil  and  the  sea  arrayed, 
Lavish  and  rare  in  a  vast  parade — 
Splendors  that  God  and  Man  hath  made, 

Colorful  banners  unfurl. 

Who  in  her  retinue  is  the  chap 

With  the  dancing  feet  and  the  jingling  cap? 

His  seems  a  prominent  place. 
Can  it  be  Folly?     No!     Jollity  gay. 
Laughingly  lifting  the  hours  away 
With  a  bow  to  his  ruler  then  seems  to  say: 
"Gloom  has  abandoned  the  race." 

Ministers  mighty — all  serious,  gray, 

Smile  in  exceptional  lightness  today. 

Won  by  the  merriment  spell; 


26  LA  FIESTA 

Even  old  Commerce  gravely  unbends, 
Flinging  forth  serpentine  over  his  friends. 
Knowing  when  all  the  frivolity  ends 
There  will  be  profits  to  tell. 

There  in  her  train  in  a  delicate  maid 
Richly  in  gossamer  garments  arrayed — 

Fair  as  the  firmament  blue — 
No  one  but  beauty  could  have  such  eyes. 
Light  of  the  stars  or  the  fair  sunrise 
And  hair  like  the  West  when  a  twilight  dies, 

Flaming  a  gorgeous  hue. 

Queen  of  the  South — on  a  scintillant  throne 
When  magical  scepter  is  waved  there  is  thrown 

About  her  a  summertime  lace; 
Harkl     Hear  the  charming,  melodious  strain! 
Hidden  musicians  create  a  refrain — 
Voices  of  blossoms  in  soft-falling  rain, 

Fragile  with  loveliest  grace. 


JUST  HOME  27 


JUST  HOME 

Nothing  ornate,  but  flower-clad  and  neat, 
A  modest  house  upon  a  quiet  street. 

How  like  a  thousand  others  in  the  town 
Is  this  small  bungalow  of  green  and  brown! 

And  yet  'tis  finer  far  than  all  the  rest — 
No  matter  what  they  are — this  is  the  best. 

At  evening  as  you  near  the  homey  place 
There  at  the  window  is  a  lovely  face. 

With  welcome-eyes  a-shine  like  baby  stars, 
All  eagerly  she  scans  the  coming  cars. 

How  beautiful  a  house — though  drab  and  plain- 
When  a  tiny  nose  is  pressed  against  the  pane. 


28  LURE  o'  THE  OPEN  ROAD 


LURE  O'  THE  OPEN  ROAD 

Oh,  the  Open  Road  in  her  dress  of  Spring 

Is  singing  so  tenderly 
A  swinging  and  lyrical,  luring  thing, 

Attuned  to  a  melody 

All  sweet  with  the  breath  of  an  April  park 
And  rich  with  the  throat  of  a  meadow  lark, 

Now  calling  us  eagerly. 

No  siren  is  she — this  Southland  maid — 
Although  she  would  draw  us  far 

From  work  and  care  and  the  tracks  of  trade 
Away  where  the  playnelds  are — 

To  silver  beaches  and  hills  of  gold ; 

To  modern  wonders  and  missions  old. 
We'll  fly  in  a  fleeting  car. 

The  cheek  of  dawn  is  pink  with  light, 

Ablush  in  the  waking  day; 
A  turquoise  sky  has  banished  night 

As  our  motors  purr  and  sway; 
Before  the  nose  of  our  swift  machine 


LURE  o"  THE  OPEN  ROAD  29 

Lies  California — gold  and  green — 
And  a  smoothly  broad  highway. 

Oh  the  Open  Road  in  the  open  day 

Is  fresh  with  the  youthful  year. 
Then  conies  the  rainbow  sunset  ray 

And  starnight,  clean  and  clear, 
When  music  of  purple  comes  bending  down 
From  the  jeweled  sky  as  we  leave  the  town 

To  speed  on  our  track  of  cheer.    " 

The  Open  Road  is  a  violet  miss, 

Her  eyes  are  the  petals,  frail; 
Her  lips  are  dreamy  with  sunbeam  kiss. 

She's  telling  a  magic  tale 
Of  Fairylands  we  may  hope  to  see 
In  happiness-hours  as  we  joyously 

Float  forth  on  the  Gypsy  Trail. 

Where  western  beaches  tint  our  dreams 

Or  up  in  the  fir-pine  hills; 
By  rumbling  sea  or  troutful  streams 

The  motor  will  work  our  wills — 
Come  speed  with  me  from  the  streets  of  men 
And  drink  of  the  wine  of  sunshine  then 

That  the  Call  o'  The  Road  distills. 


30  SCRAPS 


SCRAPS 

Diamonds  in  ash  heaps,  pearls  in  piles  of  shells! 

Who  knows  what  hidden  riches  we  may  find 
In  scrapful  junk  of  even  poorest  kind? 

Words  upon  words — a  heap  of  mental  spells. 

Digging  within  the  mass  that's  piled  so  high 

Of  maudlin  mediocrity  entwined, 

Some  lifting  thought,  rich  treasure,  we  may  find- 
A  baby's  smile,  the  song  of  birds,  the  sky. 


OLD  RAG  DOLLS  31 


OLD  RAG  DOLLS 

Father  so  happily  homeward  brings 
To  year-old  child  a  lot  of  things — 
Some  blocks,  a  rattle,  doll  that  sings — 

And  baby  hugs  them  all; 
But  though  at  first  she'll  laugh  and  coo 
At  all  the  toys  so  bright  and  new 
She's  soon  discarding  them  to  chew 

And  love  her  old  rag  doll. 

Speeding  years  new  pleasures  bring, 
New  friends  we  meet,  new  songs  we  sing, 
Luxuries  come  till  everything 

Old-fashioned  seems  to  pall; 
But  when  the  paint  wears  off  new  toys, 
Enjoyment  of  them,  somehow,  cloys, 
And  like  the  baby  girls  and  boys 

We  love  each  old  rag  doll. 


32  GREEN  EYES 


GREEN  EYES 

Beaming  your  liquid  light — 

Lamps  of  love — 
Starrier  than  the  night 

Far  above. 

Eyes  that  can  warmly  glow- 
Love  inspire — 

Often  can  flash,  I  know, 
Flaming  fire. 

Warning  upon  the  shoal — 

Beacon  bright — 
Guiding  me  to  my  goal 

In  the  night. 


SEPTEMBER'S  LAMB  33 


SEPTEMBER'S  LAMB 

Oh,  the  red  gold  gleams  in  her  vagrant,  sunlit  tresses, 

And  her  eyes  are  shining  widely  with  a  new  light,  gay; 

And  she  chatters  of  the  wonder  while  we  gaze  in  fond  caresses 
As  we  start  our  little  baby  off  to  school  today. 

For  it  seems  so  short  since  she  lisped  her  first  expression, 
Since  she  toddled  with  her  daring  feet  across  the  floor, 

But  the  time  flew  fast — there's  a  feeling  of  depression 
As  I  watch  her  grow;  a  babyhood  is  gone  once  more. 

She  is  six  years  old — how  our  hearts  are  proudly  beating 
As  we  watch  her  with  her  little  books  go  down  the  walk ; 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  for  the  years  so  swiftly  fleeting 

While  we  look  at  one  another      *      *     and  we  dare  not  talk ! 

Ah,  the  six-year-olds — what  a  world  of  life  before  them; 

As  they  work  and  learn  and  suffer  may  their  dreams  come  true; 
How  we  breathe  a  prayer  that  their  friends  may  all  adore  them 

And  forgive  their  faults — their  tiny  faults — as  parents  do. 


34  CLOSE  HARMONY 


CLOSE  HARMONY 

Gemmed  with  stars  the  silent  dome — flashing  red,  green  or  white; 
A  marvel  moon  is  sleeping  'neath  her  canopy  of  night. 

Lovers  and  a  limpid  lake!     A  nightbird  singing,  croons 
Quaint  lullabies  to  his  muted  mate — same  old  plaintive  tunes. 

Moon  madness  and  star  gladness — let  them  sigh,  but  I  recall 
Far  sweeter  music  than  the  birds  have  ever  sung  at  all. 

Throbbing  drums,  the  weird  trombone,  a  haunting  saxaphone 
Have  swung  into  a  fevered  strain,  we  claim  it  as  our  own. 

A  foxtrot  lures  our  eager  feet,  we  swing  into  the  time 
And  all  our  world  is  whirled  in  subtle  melody  and  rhyme? 

Hot  arms  without  intention  press  more  tightly  as  we  sway; 
And  what  is  there  to  make  us  care?  Tomorrow?  Yesterday? 

Nay,  for  tonight  the  music  throbs  the  tune  our  hearts  are  beating, 
And  step  by  step  we  glide  and  slide,  our  glances  never  meeting. 

We'll  let  those  other  lovers  have  their  lakeside  and  their  moon, 
Come  dance  with  me,  my  Symphony,  this  is  our  lovetide  tune. 


MOTHER'S  DAY  35 


MOTHER'S  DAY 

Symbol  showing  we  care — 

Of  love,  pure-bright — 
Blossom  this  day  we  wear, 

Red  or  white. 

See,  in  a  little  while  they  fade; 

Droop  their  dying  petals  on  our  breast. 

For  at  best, 

Flowers  are  fragile  things,  not  made 

To  live  upon  a  coat. 

An  exhibition  of  our  hearts — 

An  outward  show  within  the  marts 

Of  men  of  what  we  feel — 

But  real; 

A  living  thing,  this  love  of  ours, 

Unlike  the  emblem  flowers; 

For  more  than  living — undying! 

Blossoms  wither  and  die 

Within  an  hour  or  two, 
But  mother-love  is  eternal 

As  the  sky's  blue. 


36  PARSNIPS 


PARSNIPS 

Through  all  the  weary,  dreary  years 
I  've  eaten  in  this  vale  of  tears — 
With  buttered  corn  upon  my  ears — 

There's  something  that  has  vexed  me; 
There's  been  a  question  in  my  mind, 
(I  really  have  one,  of  a  kind) 
It's  popped  up  ev'ry  time  I've  dined — 

It  often  has  perplexed  me. 

On  tables  here  and  tables  there. 
On  tables  round  and  tables  square. 
At  home,  hotel  or  boarding  fare, 

Each  time  they  came  I  shook  'em; 
I  never  could  devour  the  weed , 
(Or  is  it  fruit?)  and  I've  agreed 
With  others  that  there  was  no  need 

For  wasting  time  to  cook  'em. 

I've  seen  them  camouflaged  in  creams, 
I've  seen  them  steamed  in  steamer  steams, 
But  never  in  my  weirdest  dreams 

Have  I  essayed  to  choose  them; 


PARSNIPS  37 


Or  oiled  or  boiled  or  stewed  or  fried 
Have  never  even  seen  them  tried 
By  diners  thin,  or  fat  folks  wide — 
Nobody  seems  to  use  them. 

But  now  a  friend  says  they  are  fine 
If  brewed  into  a  parsnip  wine — 
He  says  it  makes  a  drink  divine, 

With  lots  of  kick,  illegal; 
The  Volstead  Law  has  taught  us  much. 
We're  brewing  now  to  beat  the  Dutch, 
But  of  all  knowledge  thus  and  such. 

This  cops  the  Golden  Eagle! 

If  parsnips  can  be  taken  from 
The  menu  cards  and  made  to  hum 
In  gala  wine — that's  going  some! 

I'll  cheer  them  like  a  Deuce-Full; 
I  know  the  things  are  not  a  food, 
Nor  medicine,  I've  understood 
And  if  they'll  make  a  drink  that's  good 

(And  strong)  they  may  be  useful. 


38  RESURRECTION 


RESURRECTION 

Love  is  a  rosebush — roses  bloom  and  die, 
Fragrant  and  thorny,  when  the  sunny  sky 
Has  chilled  to  gray  and  comes  the  cruel  snow 
To  blot  warm  color  with  a  cloak  of  white. 
The  blossoms  pass;  but  ever  if  there  grow 
Lave  roots  beneath  the  sod,  return  alight 
With  perfume  roses  in  another  spring — 
Dreaming  and  bending  in  the  sun  or  rain. 

Love — or  a  flower — what  a  wonder-thing 
That  lives  and  seems  to  die  and  lives  again. 
All  tenderly  I  do  my  gardening 
Against  the  time  chill  sleet  beats  on  the  pane. 
Roses  once  more  shall  smile  and  bloom  and  blow, 
And  faded  living  love  again  shall  grow. 


TRUCE 


39 


TRUCE 

Shivers  of  sunlight  gleam  on  the  stream, 
Silver  the  trout  as  they  leap  for  the  fly; 

Up  in  the  mountains,  far  from  the  town. 
Lazily  dreaming  am  I. 

Just  for  a  day,  here  let  me  play, 
Let  me  forget  the  city  and  walls; 

Soothing  with  cheer  on  the  tired  ear 
Nature's  soft  whispering  falls. 

Tomorrow  I  go  again  back  to  the  strife — 
Back  to  my  old  loves — Hurry  and  Fray; 

Tenderly  balming  the  breath  of  the  hills 
Cools  me  and  calms  me  today. 


40  IMMORTAL  RILEY 


IMMORTAL  RILEY 

I  like  a  song  that  hums  to  me  of  hidden  mysteries, 
I  like  the  mystic  music  and  the  grand  philosophies, 
But  best  of  all  I  love  the  simple  folk-song  harmonies. 

The  greater  poets  lead  us  into  various  winding  ways, 
They  lose  our  mental  footsteps  in  hazy,  devious  maze. 
Not  so  beloved  Riley  who  but  wrote  the  plainer  lays. 

That  wonder-brain  is  sleeping  now;  the  brain  that  led  a  pen — 
A  golden,  thoughtful,  happy  pen  that  told  of  common  men — 
Will  form  no  more  in  human  verse  the  songs  we  love  and  ken. 

But  though  the  one  whom  Nature  loved  now  in  her  arms  doth  lie, 

And  though  the  Unknown  claims  the  man  who  made  us  laugh 
and  cry, 

He  ever  shall  be  with  us,  for  his  songs  shall  never  die. 


PATERNAL  41 


PATERNAL 

Jimmy  McCann  was  a  family  man, 

A  father,  proud,  was  he, 
For  to  his  home  a  babe  had  come, 

The  very  first,  you  see. 

Jimmy's  head  was  loudly  red 
And  the  baby's  head  was  too; 

Across  his  face  a  smile  did  chase 
And  lit  his  eyes  of  blue. 

For  one  whole  week  McCann  would  speak- 
As  all  new  daddies  do — 

To  every  friend  and  money  spend 
On  smokes  for  all  he  knew. 

But  one  fine  day  his  manner,  gay. 
Was  gone  and  his  step  was  slow; 

No  grin  inspired,  his  eyes  looked  tired 
And  his  face  was  filled  with  woe. 


42  PATERNAL 

"Kids  are  nice — they're  worth  the  price 
We  pay,"  said  McCann.  "and  more; 

But  I  can't  feel  glad  when  baby's  had 
The  colic  the  night  before!" 


SOFT  SHACKLES  43 

SOFT  SHACKLES 

I  worked  today! 

And  yesterday  and  yesterdays  before, 
I  worked — 

Doing  the  same  dull,  tiring  tasks, 
O'er  and  o'er. 

Working  today 

Old  happenings  unbidden  rushed  to  me — 

Far  places,  other  friends. 

And  I  wondered  as  I  pondered 

If  they'd  greet  me  with  the  old-time  fervor? 

And  dreaming,  hated  this — 

Endless  work! 

Vagrantly  I  idled  home 

The  truant  thoughts  tumbling  my  straying  mind. 

In  a  small  home  a  woman  waited 
With  kisses  and  a  happy  story 
Of  how  the  Baby  spoke  a  word, 
Or  walked  across  the  floor. 

I'll  always  work! 


44  TURKEY'S  H.  C.  L. 

TURKEY'S  H.  C.  L. 

The  terrible  Turk  has  got  the  blues, 
The  Harem  Blues,  so  runs  the  news, 
No  longer  dare  he  calmly  choose 

A  honeymooning  series; 
Old  H.  C.  L.  has  hit  their  lives 
And  they  must  now  cut  down  on  wives, 

The  dear,  expensive  dearies. 

In  Turkey,  in  ye  olden  days — 
In  pre-war's  gala,  golden  haze — 
They  sat  around  and  sang  love-lays 

While  lots  of  lovely  ladies 
Shook  up  the  wicked  Turkey  Trot, 
But  now  they  can  afford  it  not — 

High  living  costs  like  Hades! 

Imagine  some  poor  Turkish  gent 
Who  has  a  love  for  home's  content 


TURKEY'S  H.  C.  L.  45 

(And  womenfolks)  now  forced  to  rent 

A  dinky,  small  apartment; 
Too  little  to  accommodate 
His  sweeties,  ten,  in  former  state 

* 

With  each  her  own  compartment. 

They  must  retrench;  it  makes  "em  sore 

To  be  too  all-fired  blanky  poor 

To  buy  new  clothes  for  three  or  four — 

And  Turk  girls  sometimes  wear  'em — 
So  they,  of  course,  must  take  these  courses: 
Accept  some  non-support  divorces — 

The  cost  of  harems  scare  'em. 


46  PARTING 


PARTING 

Do  you  recall  those  magic  nights — 

Those  nights  of  long  ago — 
When  all  the  Blue  was  filled  with  lights 

That  tinkled  to  and  fro — 
The  nights  when  you  and  I  were  young, 
And  all  our  sorrows  still  unsung? 

Do  you  recall  the  time  that  I — 

As  lovers  sometimes  so — 
Sat  out  with  you  and  watched  the  sky 

On  your  front  porch  till  half-past  two? 
How  little  then  I  kenned  my  fate — 
Your  father's  boot  was  No.  8. 


MINE  47 


MINE 

Wee  dimpled  hands  reach  to  my  face, 
Wee  arms  clasp  me  in  soft  embrace 
And  Heaven  is  just  a  little  pace — 

Not  far  away — 
As  angel  mouth  lifts  for  a  kiss. 
No  Midas  wealth  could  purchase  this — 

My  joy  today. 

A  tousled  head  of  thickening  hair. 
Three  tiny  teeth,  a  dancing  pair 
Of  shining  eyes  and  skin  as  fair 

As  Easter  flower; 

I  said  that  Heaven's  near,  but  when 
"Daddy",  she  coos,  I  seem  to  ken 

'Tis  here  this  hour. 


48  GOLDEN  GAME 


GOLDEN  GAME 

Men  often  fail  or  find  when  gray  and  old; 
How  searing  is  their  grim,  dead  search  for  gold! 
But  sing  of  the  one  whose  trek  for  treasure-trove 
Is  rich  adventure,  rollicking  romance — • 
Gay  quest  of  sport,  contest  to  win  and  love; 
Joyfully  fighting  for  Fortune's  favor-glance 
Nor  loses  festive  youth  to  gain  success. 
Toward  the  top  with  many  a  jest  he  wends 
His  way,  content  with  just  a  little  less 
Than  grasping  wretches,  sacrificing  friends — 
Their  golden  friends — and  social  happiness. 
Admirable  victor  in  life's  game  of  chance, 
Less  lucky  ones  still  cheer  the  winning  way 
Of  Conquerer  who  yet  can  smile  and  play. 


(Note-Thi*  poem,  dedicated  to  C.  W.  McCabe  of 
San  Diego,  California.  wa»  written  Sept.  10.  1921.) 


NEW  YEAR  49 


NEW  YEAR 

I  love  the  smell  of  the  fresh-turned  soil 
Or  the  sight  of  a  new-born  day, 

With  red  and  gold  in  the  east  agleam. 

The  new  are  ever  the  things  that  beam 
With  promise  replete  alway. 

I  love  to  look  at  an  unsoiled  book, — 

Though  it  sullies  beneath  my  hand — 
Unopened  I  fondle  for  new  books  seem 
To  speak  to  me  ever  of  author's  dream — 
Untainted,  fresh  and  grand. 

I  love  the  feel  of  a  baby's  hand, 

And  the  smile  on  a  baby's  face; 
Picturing  things  the  babe  may  do 
In  his  life  ahead;  I  am  certain,  too. 
He  will  fill  a  real  man's  place. 


50  NEW  YEAR 

And  so  today  as  upon  clean  wall 

A  calendar  new  I  see, 

With  a  rush  come  plans  for  the  unstained  year, 
And  never  a  thought  of  the  past  one,  drear, 

But  of  happiness  sure  to  be. 


WHISTLING  5 1 


WHISTLING 

1 1  seems  but  yesterday  when  all  so  proudly 

A  seven-year-old,  my  laddie,  came  to  me — 
"Look,  Daddie!     I've  learned  to  whistle.     See?' 

Then  pursed  his  baby  lips  and  bravely,  loudly. 

Whistled  a  little,  wavering,  lilting  tune — 

"Yankee  Doodle"  I  think  it  was.     "It's  fine!" 

I  praised  his  wonder-feat.     But  all  too  soon 

He  stretched  into  a  youth,  this  boy  o'  mine. 

I  used  to  listen  for  him  late  at  night 

When  he'd  been  out  to  high  school  dances,  and 

He  used  to  whistle  home  some  song  the  band 
Had  played,  and  step  off  quick  and  right; 
He'd  click  his  heels  so  surely  on  the  walk 

I'd  always  know  'twas  he.  and  smile. 
Then  how  I  used  to  love  his  boy-man  talk. 

Life  for  him  contained  a  lot  worth  while. 

Then  the  war  came.     He  wasn't  old  enough 
To  go  but  every  day  around  the  place 
He'd  whistle  bugle  calls  and  in  his  face 


52  WHISTLING 

The  great  desire  shone — 'twas  pretty  tough 
When  finally  he  said  he  couldn't  bear 

To  stay  at  home.     But  I  let  him  go — 
Mighty  proud  of  the  youngster,  too.  but  there 

Was  a  soul-ache — my  only  kid  you  know. 

I  used  to  get  his  letters — funny  stuff 

He'd  write  about  the  "cooties"  and  the  mud; 

And  never  a  word  of  bayonets  or  blood 
Or  homesickness — but  I  knew  him  well  enough 
To  feel  he'd  face  machine-guns  with  a  smile 

And  whistle  with  that  little  boyish  nod. 
His  letters  stopped.     Then  for  an  aching  while 

We  didn't  know — and  then  we  learned.     Oh  God! 

Last  night  I  lay  and  listened  to  the  noise 

That  drifted  in :  laughter — roar  of  cars — 
Nightbirds  chattering  underneath  the  stars — 

Music  of  the  night;  the  city's  voice. 

And  then  came  ringing,  singing  from  out  there 
The  click  of  heels  time-stepping  a  refrain 

Some  youngster  whistling  a  patriotic  air. 

My  heart  leaped — stopped!     Then  choked  me  with  the 
pain. 


SHOPPING  53 


SHOPPING 

In  the  mottled  market-place  a  blur  of  eager  faces, 
Anxious  ringers  flinging  forth  the  toil-won  gold; 
Jade  and  myrrh  and  calico  and  cocoanuts  and  laces — 
What  a  luring  store  of  things  the  counters  hold. 

Women  flushed  with  fineries — silk  and  satin  wrappings; 
Women  with  their  shabby  gowns  and  faces  faded  gray, 
Hurrying  and  worrying,  a-scramble  for  the  trappings, 
Flaming  with  the  fever  of  an  age-old  Play. 

Riches  men  have  died  for  arrayed  in  careless  fashion — 
Things  that  must  have  crawled  across  the  ruthless  sands; 
Cargoes  that  have  braved  the  ocean's  wildest,  reckless  passion, 
Here  to  feel  the  heedlessness  of  hungry  hands. 


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